


Can't Heal in Two

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not <i>just</i> or <i>only</i> anything, Dean. You are quite possibly the farthest being from only that I’ve ever encountered.” (Something of a 9x10 coda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Heal in Two

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a couple things: unpack what Cas said about the corruption of man and try to be realistic about Dean's mental health. Oh, right, and have some face-touching.

When it’s done, Sam welcomes him home with a brittle smile and a cold beer, already opened. It tastes like nothing, like the stale air inside the Impala after Dean’s been driving alone for too many hours straight with the windows rolled up.

“Thanks,” Dean says when he notices the too-long beat of silence between them.

The bunker’s all wiped clean of the damage Dean did before he left. Maybe Cas cleaned it up with a spritz of borrowed angel mojo, or maybe Sam took the time, careful so neither of them would have to remember.

“I’m, uh.” Too soon, Sam jerks his thumb in the direction of his room. Dean’s grateful to him, that he doesn’t bother making up a bullshit excuse.

“Go for it.”

“Look, uh…” Sam clasps Dean’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, man.”

Dean watches Sam’s back as he goes. He’s still huge, but he doesn’t move with his usual easy strength. It’ll come back, he tells himself.

He doesn’t really want the beer, but he drinks it anyway while he walks. He’s avoiding his bedroom and he knows it. There’s a scuff on the stairs where he sat with Kevin at the two in the morning, eating grilled cheese sandwiches Dean made himself. Here’s where Charlie wrapped her arms around him, squeezing so tight it almost held him together. Where he sat when he told Cas—

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says darkly. His hand itches to fling the half-empty bottle across the room and he tightens his grip instead, fingers slipping through the moisture on the glass.

“You don’t have to drink it.”

“Hey,” Dean says, and hates the way his voice shakes. Cas doesn’t have the coat on and he looks small, soft, and solemn.

“Hey,” Cas says.

Dean clears his throat. He peels the label off his bottle, watching the fabric crinkle damply. “Thanks for, you know, with Sam.”

“Dean.” There’s a helplessness in Cas’ voice that Dean doesn’t get, and Cas’ expression is as stupidly cryptic as ever when he looks back up. Cas doesn’t elaborate, just says, “Would you like to go for a drive?”

 

It’s dusk when they leave and dark by the time Dean stops, pulling the Impala over by the side of the crappy dirt road they’ve been following for an hour. They’ve been driving in silence, Cas’ head tilted toward the window. Dean didn’t switch on the music or try to make small talk. Cas didn’t seem to mind.

Everything’s too damn quiet when he turns the car off, just his own breathing harsh in the darkness.

“So,” he starts.

“Dean,” Cas says, at the exact same time.

Dean laughs, and it doesn’t make him relax, really, but it helps the stupid anxious ringing in his ears. He cranks his window down to let in a cool night breeze, bringing the reassurance of being out of the bunker with it.

Cas’ face is half-shadowed. The guy’s hard to read at the best of times. He inclines his head, like _after you_.

“You doin’ okay? You know, with…” Dean makes an aimless gesture. “The universe being ruined and all.” Not like he could argue with that phrasing. Things feel pretty friggin’ ruined nowadays.

Cas’ brows draw together and he leans closer, his hand hovering above the leather of the front seat before he lets it drop. “I apologize. I was… I should’ve controlled myself better.”

“Probably, yeah.”

Weirdly, something softens in Cas’ expression. He’s still almost in Dean’s space, and he opens his mouth to answer, so Dean cuts him off.

“We all have our bad, y’know, whatever. Days, weeks, years. Lives. Existences. Corruption of man, that’s a pretty big deal, huh?” Dean forces a chuckle. “We did turn out pretty fucked.”  


“It was meant to—”

“I _know_ you’re not playing the fate card on me again, man.”

Cas drops his gaze, as if there’s something interesting on Dean’s jacket. “I just meant to say that these things are complicated.”

Dean’s snort of laughter comes out a lot bitterer than he wanted it to. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Let me finish,” Cas says, all steely like old times. “There was a plan, yes. A lengthy one. You think you were part of it.”

“Buddy, you were there. I was.” 

“In a sense.” Cas always uses that annoying vague tone when he’s hedging. “Your body was part of the plan. Your actions, or some of them. Dean, _you_ were far from planned for.”

Jesus, Dean has had it up to here with angels. All of them. The bullshit Gadreel had spouted before Dean ganked him was enough for the rest of the damn century. “Can it,” he spits.

“Dean.” Warm, dry fingers brush his face, the growth of stubble that’s thicker than he’s let it get in a long time. Cas is way, way too close, the familiarly searching tilt of his head making something bitter twist in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. When I said the corruption of man—”

“I’m the goddamn _poster child_ for corruption.”

“No.” Cas’ fingers curl around Dean’s jaw, gentle and undemanding. Dean’s too tired to stop his eyes from falling shut, the instinctive lean into the touch. “The corruption around you isn’t innate. It’s in your perception.”

Dean wants to snap at him, ask what the hell he means, but when he opens his mouth he just hears a wet, hitching sound. He clenches his jaw hard.

“When I’m angry about Gadreel’s mistake, it’s—selfish, in part. We had paradise.” Cas’ thumb strokes down the side of Dean’s neck, up again. “Things aren’t happening for a reason anymore. A handful of years of aimlessness against an eternity with a map—that can scare me.”

Dean breathes in slowly. He knows that even if he opened his eyes to look, it would be dark, just the gleam of Cas’ eyes and teeth while he speaks. He hangs onto the rasp of Cas’ voice and the light pressure of his fingers on Dean’s pulse.

“When I came to Earth, that was the way I saw things. Broad strokes of a story we had all been told for a very, very long time. I think I know better now.”

“Sure about that?” It’s mean. Dean’s not feeling nice.

“No,” Cas says again. “You know me. Anger gets the better of me. I fuck up more often than I don’t.”

Dean laughs, or something close to it but breathier.

“Like I said. Complicated.” There’s a little huff of rueful breath that Dean can feel on his cheek. “It’s easy for me to succumb to blind anger. Easier than untangling everything I don’t regret from everything I do.”

“Man, that was one epic chain of dominoes he set off. You’ve got a right to be pissed.”

“About some things,” Cas allows, “but not you. You’re not… it wouldn’t be fair to think of you in terms like that, pure or corrupted. You’re—”

“Just a man,” Dean finishes for him. “I know.”

For a third time: “ _No._ ” Cas’ fingertips curl around Dean’s ear and push through the bristle of hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re not _just_ or _only_ anything, Dean. You are quite possibly the farthest being from only that I’ve ever encountered.”

Cas has this uncanny way of shutting Dean up. He drags in another breath. Moving feels too hard, like the miasma of shit around him is gaining physicality and weighing him down, but he puts his hand over Cas’. “Hey,” he says, quiet as he meets Cas’ gaze.

A smile tugs at the corners of Cas’ mouth. Dean hasn’t felt that uncomplicated pang of fondness in weeks, and he’s grateful for it. “Hello.”

“You’ve done good.”

“Not nearly as much as you.” Cas kisses Dean’s forehead, then the bridge of his nose. He hesitates, warm breath against Dean’s lips, and presses the next kiss to his chin. It’s slow and careful. Cas is taking stock, checking something.

All Dean can do is feel the knobs of Cas’ knuckles under his own callused thumb, the whisper of skin against skin. He’s thought about this so much, Cas close and wanting, and he should be responsive, should feel arousal tugging at him. He could so easily pull Cas in to make the thing between them real. He can’t. Dean’s destruction, blunt edges and heavy heart; he’s a battering ram, a loaded gun, not the man he knows he can be when he tries, the one who can touch someone else with tenderness and love.

“Next time,” he says, sounding small, as Cas strokes the back of his neck. That earns him another flicker of a smile. “I mean, if—you know I want...”

“Me too,” Cas says.

Dean’s shoulders slump. The tension doesn’t leave but it slinks down, waiting at the base of his spine instead of holding him completely hostage.

Cas watches him, the intentness of his gaze one thing that’s never changed between them. Sometimes it makes Dean want to run and sometimes it makes a little childish part of his heart soar. Sometimes both.

“I don’t know if I can go back,” he confesses.

“You can,” Cas says steadily, “but you don’t have to right now. You have time.”

Dean could kiss him. He will, maybe soon.

There’s a rawness in him, hollow and ragged, and he’s so sick of patching shit over with more shit until it all festers. Cas deserves better. Maybe he does too. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do.”


End file.
